


betty crocker packet mix

by oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Alternia is Terrible, Alternia-Focused, Alternian Empire, Ancestors (Homestuck), Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Cooking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Hemospectrum, Torture, Vore, dead grub: do eat, tyrants gonna tyrant, when you just need those baby back baby back baby back riiiibs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23375296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: "I don't believe you can ever really cook unless you love eating. There is a kind of euphoria of grief, a degree of madness. You don't go around grieving all the time, but the grief is still there and always will be. I never taste the wine first in restaurants, I just ask the waiter to pour."- Hanbul Lecter, well-known seadweller epicurean"Cooking with kids is not just about ingredients, recipes, and cooking. It's about harnessing imagination, empowerment, and creativity."- Guy Fieri
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	betty crocker packet mix

"Sup, my lil buoys and gills and wharfebber else you wanna be," you say, speaking to the captive audience you know is out there, the many citizens of your beautiful Empire. You blow a kiss, standing easy in your little cooking studio, all set up for broadcasting and displaying the otter skills you got betides just rulin shit. You the best Empress, it's you. You're also a pretty fucking good baker, and you like to spend some time wave your hobbies when you net a chance. Sometides it ain't just aboat doing some fun ship in the luxury of your privacy, sometides you wanna put a trollish face to the Imperial Majesty occashoalnally, if anybaydy out there is picking up wharf you're putting down here. 

And sometides it's aboat giving everybaydy a nice lil lesson. This is moray one of those kinda tides.

"Tonight, we gonna be cooking up a reel storm wave some kinda _unushoal_ ingredients," you continue brightly, smiling big and making sure that each camera can catch every glittering fang. You want people to be starting to get reel unsettled, wondering what the fuck you're up to right now. Not like they can be watching anyfin else right now except you, you're in your element and you're glorying in it. Buoy, but you do fuckin love to put on a reel good show. You gonna give all these basshoals somefin they ain't gonna forget in a hurry, that's for shore.

"First off, what we got over here is a some green sourglobe juice an' some slices in that lil bowl over there, some sliced up tearproduction globes, a few fronds of sometimecleanser stalks, and becrayse I like this shit _hot_ , I got a lotta reel spicy burntubes over here. And some stuff to eat it wave after, but you want measurements and ship, you gotta go to the website, wigglers." You wave your hand airily over the small bowls with your prepared ingredients. Not the interesting ones, just everything else that's gonna make your dish complete. The singing glee of knowing what you're about to unveil settles in your belly like you've just been sniffing pixiedust with your clownfish, and you know your smile is getting all kinds of motherfucking outrageous. Sometides a beach just be enjoying hershellf and you don't sea nofin wrong wave that. 

"Now, everybaydy likes a lil grubloaf, right? Grubsauce?" While you're talking, you gesture with your hands, brilliantly fuchsia claws catching the light while you punctuate your words with movement, make shore they reelly sinking in. You want them all to be fascinated by you, like a squeakbeast in front of a dangernoodle. Every flick and movement of your fingers, the way you turn your head to let the diamonds in your perchonal visioncorrectors catch the gleam of your studio brights, it's all to keep everyone's attention on you. You been doing this a reel fuckin long tide, after all, you know how to get a motherglubber's attention - and keep it.

"We shore cooking with grub tonight, so I hope you're feeling hungry." Bending down and letting the cameras catch a glimpse of the Imperial Cleavage (ain't like you're shy, you got somefin to show, you gonna show it off), you grab the tank underneath the counter with both grasping fronds and haul it out to set it up on the bench without even a grunt. It's a large tank filled with a lotta water but this ship just kiddy stuff, ain't like it gonna mako someone like you break the smallest fuckin sweat. Compared to a mothaglubbing skywhale, it ain't nofin. "Tonight we be cookin' up this plump lil beach here!"

Reaching into the water, you grab the seadweller grub by its prawn-like tail and haul it up out of the water with a vicious grin. The little wiggler squeals shrilly in pained panic as droplets of water fly off its hide, trying to flip back and forth to wrench itself outta your grip and dive back into the water. Instinctual, you minnow. Ain't like that lil tank is gonna save it for long, but you admire the way it shore as glub is tryin to get away from you, like it'd save it or somefin, moby. It even tries to bite you while you holding it up for the cameras, which is kinda adorable, all its lil legs goin every which fuckin wave while it contorts and chitterscreams distress. Calling for a dead fucker lusus that ain't coming. It's kinda fitting, if you think about it. Kinda poetic. Your lusus ate its lusus, and now you're gonna eat it. Ironic as fuck, the way you like it.

"Now this ain't easy to get a hold of, so if you net a chance to eat a lil seadweller grub, you shouldn't pass up on it," you say calmly, like you're not holding a potential subject out in the drowning air, intending to make a meal of it. Sometides beaches just get unlucky. That's the way things are, and this grub just got super fuckin unlucky. Moby it manta lived, even waveout its lusus but it just wasn't gonna have even the chance for that. "To _reelly_ apperchciate the flavour of this lil fucker, I be gonna be keeping fin-gs reel shrimple. When you got a good product, you don't want to fuck it up wave too many flavours, you minnow what I'm spraying?"

Still holding the grub up as it drowns in dry air, you get out a chopping block and a pointed carving knive, whirling it across your palm without looking before taking a firm grip. Slamming the grub down on the wooden block with its grooved channels for carrying away blood, the little thing squirms and cries weakly. You pin it behind the head with your hand spanning the hump of where head met thorax and the little shelled tail beats a sad and desperate rhythm against the wood.

"Get in close up here, ocray?" you purr, gesturing with your chin at the mobile cameras and a drone-eye detaches to obediently come in for a close up. With the point of your knife, you start to wiggle your way in just under the shell at the small of the head. Every single one of your moves shows your smooth competence, the way you're familiar wave doing this ship, and you want it too. You want them to see and realise just wharu they stand wave you, and how littoral any of them manta to you atoll. 

The grub _shrieks_. 

"Now you wanna get this in the right spot, you get me, guppies? You gotta get it in just the right spot so the grub stops wiggling, but it ain't stop feeling. Now this is gonna take a lot of practice, so you manta want to practice on somefin you can net up moray easily, pike a lil rustie or somefin. I might show all you mothaglubbas how to cook one of those up one night, huh? Aaanywave, you just look for those double striations, see em here?" 

You wiggle the knife and the grub convulses, crying and cheeping its little pusher out. Like even now, even now, somefin is gonna come and save it. This is why you gotta be harsh with these morayons, these barnacles fixed to the belly of your beautiful, beautiful fucking Empire. They got to be _bred_ in wave the knowledge that they _belong_ to you, to the Empire. They're yours, and they ain't never ever gonna knot be. Not from shell to corpse. The fact that it's crying away like this shows it ain't all the way into the bone yet, that the need to surf ain't embedded proper right in its very DNA helix. But it will be. You'll make sure of that.

"Ok, just a hard tap here on the butt of the knife, right here between those striations you can see on the neck-shield and - bam! This ain't gonna be an escapee no remora," you declare as the grub's spiny legs stiffen out then fall still. It is obviously still aware, even though the body ain't flopping around anymore, fighting to escape your grip. Good, these lil suckers can get real slippery if you don't knife 'em first. Sliding your knife out with not much blood escaping to follow, you give the camera a hard grin as the drone flies back when you wave it off. Back to long range viewing so people can get a good hook on what you're up to here.

"Next, we gotta get rid of all this hard stuff on the side - if you've killed a fish and taken the time to cut it up, you know what I'm puttin' down already, but follow along wave me anyway, baybes," you say, turning the paralysed grub on its side and tapping the tip of your knife down slowly beneath its gills. It cheeps miserably, a little violet draining into the grooves as you start to get ready to slice away the side grublegs and secondary gills, along with all the harder scales on the side. It would have shit itself by now if you'd let it have anyfin to eat these last few nights.

You talk your way through it as you slice up the still alive grub, its little peeps getting smaller and weaker as you go along. The shrillness at the beginning made you have to stop for a moment here and there as you waited for the audio pickups to get over the chirping shrieks, so everybaydy could hear you reel nice and clear. Explaining how you need to get close to the bone at the top of the cut, to make sure you took all the subdermal grubleg structures. You peel off the gills and legs in a leaf-shaped piece of flesh on one side, and then you flip and do it again. Talking about how a sharp knife will do most of the work for you, just let the speed and the sharpness carry you along as you cut through the meat of the grub. Feeling the firm wetness of butchered flesh under your grasperfrond as you work, enjoying the chance to show off some of your knife skills.

There's a lot more violet on the chopping board now.

"New knife, you want something nice and slick for the next part," you coo, and pick up something a bit thinner and sharper, moving it just enough to let the light catch the shine of the blade. Theatre. Food's theatre as much as it is eating what's on your nutrition plateau. Next you demonstrate gutting, the dark purple insides of the grub coming out in a gush and a storm of suddenly invigorated peeping and squalling. You point out the collapsing and expanding bladder based aquatic vascular system components, the hemofiltration sponge, the hungersack, the dirty dirty guts in their coiling tubes. All the bits, none of which you're eating tonight cos you're a high class motherfucking beach, alright. With a sweep, you clear your bench into the garbagedray and then pick up the seadweller grub by its tail. You haven't removed that yet, after all, and it ain't just it's gonna look reel pretty at the end. 

"You gotta work fast after this," you warn your reluctant viewers, taking a moment to put the taps on blast and wash the grub off of all its bleeding and motherfucking mess. Scales and bits of shell going everywhich wave, damn. Plunking the grub down onto a clean board, you pick up your filleting knife and cast a big grin at the cameras while your psionics pick up the bowls and you start mixing up the dressing to cure the grub-flesh as soon as you've cut it free. "You don't want to be finishing up and the fuckin fin has died on you before you get to take your first bite, do you?"

With that, you get to filleting the lil grub nice and pretty, narrating how to know when you're getting to close to the bone with your knife. The importance of the one smooth, true cut so you didn't get raggedy ass bits of flesh. One side, then the other side as you flip the grub, and then put what's left of it, lil peepers bugging out and trying to cheep but not having anything left to push up air through its chirpbox with, back down on the chopping block for now. The primary gills flap, and its facegash opens and closes. You've no doubt that the lil buglet is in a whole motherfucking world of pain.

"...toss the cubes of flesh with all the stuff you prepped earlier, and sprinkle with some nice big crystals of ground sea salt," you direct, once you've filleted and cubed the grub meat. Picking up the still weakly gasping grub by its tail for the last time before you have your meal, you lay it neat and pretty on a nice big dish and then pile up the flesh, sourglobe segments and half-crescents of tearproduction globes, the torn leaves of the sometimecleanser stalks arranged real pretty in the mess. Nice little pop of green in there, good. The head at one end, and the pretty curled tail at the other with the rack of bones on its insides making up the framing for the mound of meat. All its insides now outsides, and arranged so fuckin beautiful, a reel snap for some cookery magazine. Maybe you'll grab a still and send it in later (ain't like they're gonna say no to you, is it).

"And you can sea, how the flesh is coming up more violet as the green sourglobe juice cooks it? Ain't it just pretty as fuck," you croon in an exaggerated way, picking up a pair of food-sticks and flashing a big and hungry grin at the cameras. You want to make shore that this whale scene is engraved on the mind's ocular of every sprat and ratshit basstard watching it. Ain't no one gonna forget what you are. Who you are. What you could do, if you wanted to.

You ain't had seadweller ceviche for a reel long ass tide. This is gonna taste so fucking good. With delicacy, you pluck a cube of flesh from the quivering remains of the grub, and wink at the camera. This whole tide you been cookin', you know you ain't stopped smiling and now you're settling down to fill that grinning maw wave some real good eatin'.

"Bon appétit, my tasty lil sugargrubs!"

_**-END TRANSMISSION-** _


End file.
